


How to Torture John

by Dlvvanzor, Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Forced Self-harm, Guilt, Kidnapping, M/M, Married Couple, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dlvvanzor/pseuds/Dlvvanzor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John married me- obviously he loves me.  So the best thing you could do to hurt him is to hurt me."  Sherlock leaned forward as much as he could, which was mostly just his head, tied to a chair as he was.  "I don't want him hurt.  I don't care if I'm hurt, but if I'm hurt it will kill him.  And you want him tortured.  So I propose a game."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Game

When John became aware of where he was, several minutes after Sherlock regained consciousness, he wondered how it was possible to be kidnapped when they hadn't been on a case for over a week. 

"Sherlock?"  

It wasn't a very clever set up, certainly nothing they hadn't experienced before.  They were both tied to chairs, facing each other, too far away to touch.  Surely these people could think of anything different?

"I'm here," came the welcome reply in the dim room.  John couldn't see his partner well, but he seemed calm enough.  "Are you injured?"

"Don't think so. Are you?"

"Not yet."

"So pessimistic."

Sherlock ignored this and looked around, trying to gather data.

John tugged at the ropes. They were tight, but that didn't mean he'd not try to get them loose. "Did you see anything?"

"Not a thing.  Any idea who might have captured us?  We're not on a case..."  He left the knot-trying to John, having already determined that it was useless, to focus on his observations which were, so far, fruitless.  "We're still in London.  We're on the ground floor."

"Not a basement. That's new."  John grunted, wrists already burning from his attempts to make the ropes loose.

Nothing more to glean from the environment, Sherlock turned his attention inward.  Who might have taken them?  Why?  They weren't on a case.  That didn't mean, of course, that no one want to hurt them.  But who specifically?  The flavor of the day, as it were?

John gave up on the ropes for a moment, looking around. Unlike Sherlock, he got very little from the environment. "Not on a case. Maybe someone with a grudge from a previous case?"

Sherlock didn't reply, thinking hard.  These were precious minutes, before the attacker actually showed his (or her, he knew they'd pissed off plenty of women as well) face.  It could make all the difference if they were able to appear unsurprised when contact was made-

There were footsteps. John glanced at Sherlock, then back towards the door as a man stepped through. A large man. He stopped in the light, hard eyes locked on John's.  In their last moments before whatever would occur next, Sherlock raked his eyes over the newcomer and wasn't able to determine much before-

"Been a while, hasn't it Watson?"

Watson?  Calculations immediately started flying through Sherlock's head.  The grudge was against _John,_ not Sherlock, a welcome if worrisome change of page.  Large man. _Huge_ man.  Body of ex-military, violent in nature judging from the scars on his fists, a bully, very, very angry about some imagined or real ill.  Their chances of surviving diminished slightly.

It took John a while, but when it did his eyes widened. Fuck. If this man was behind this, John might have a pretty good idea why. "Jameson."  Sherlock saw this, glanced quickly between them.  Recognition and worry on John's face.  Chances of survival diminished a bit more.

"Ah, so you do remember me?" the mountain asked, walking further into the room.

"I don't forget faces easy," John said calmly.

"You _do_ forget to come back for people though, don't you?" Jameson spat, glaring.  "You're not quite so good at remembering that bit."

John watched him. "I didn't have a choice."

"Of course you had a fucking choice," he growled. "Between me, Crawford, and Black. And you took Black." He paced closer. "Never came back for Crawford and me. You know he died, right? There in the field, because you didn't come back."

Jameson, Crawford, and Black.  Crawford and Jameson.  Sherlock was 99% sure he'd heard John saying those names in his sleep at least once.  He watched, silent.  For now, he had to trust John with this.

"I _didn't_ ," John said tightly. "After I got Black to safety, I was told to stay back and treat him. I told them where you were."

"Did you? Because no one ever came for us, Watson," Jameson said as he walked. "I had to leave Crawford's body there and crawl my way back. Managed it, obviously. I'm lucky to be alive."

They, Sherlock thought, were less lucky that he was alive.

"There was nothing I could do," John said tightly.

"There was plenty you could have done!"

John knew there was little point in arguing— Jameson had never been considered the most stable, rising through the ranks generally just because he was huge and scary-looking. People thought he'd not be allowed back, if he survived that tour. He had a temper, which John had generally managed to avoid until now, and a history of getting into fights. John watched warily as he paced forward.  Soon, Jameson was beside him.

"So," Jameson continued when John said nothing, "Here's what we're going to do."  He stopped abruptly to give John a cold stare.  "I had to watch Crawford die out there.  A good man.  I actually watched him bleed out.  You know I'm not a particularly clever man, so what I want is simple.  I want to watch _you_ bleed."

John tried not to pale, and tried not to show just _how_ scared he was of this guy. Because people were scared of Jameson. Always had been. And John had no way to defend himself and Sherlock against him.  John glanced at Sherlock.

"So how do you want to go about it?" Jameson asked, circling John's chair. "I don't think it should go too fast, do you?" John was silent, and Jameson's fist struck him across the jaw, hard. "That was a question, Watson," he growled.

John stared straight ahead, jaw stinging. "I assume you already have a plan in mind."

Sherlock stared at John, teeth grit to the point of pain.  He quietly tried his knots.  Damn soldiers and their effective knot-tying.

"Oh, I have come prepared," he said, voice cheerful. "Knives, guns, the works. But it is rather satisfying to go at you with my own hands." He struck again, this time at John's nose. John made the smallest grunt of pain but was otherwise silent. "So I think we'll stick with this for a while."

Knives?  Guns?  Sherlock tugged harder at his ropes, trying to keep it subtle, never taking his eyes off his husband who had now been struck _twice_.  No one hit John.

"Well, good to know what lies ahead," John snipped back.

Another punch, this one nearly sending the chair flying to the floor. John clenched his teeth together and said nothing else.

Sherlock saw the chair wobble, knew how hard the strike must have been, and let out an outraged noise before he could choke it back.  This must be what it was like for John when Sherlock wouldn't shut up for his own good.

Jameson turned towards him. "Oh, looks like your buddy over these isn't happy."

"Most people don't like watching others they know get hurt," John said back.

Sherlock forced his mouth to close and held his breath to keep from humming or something.  Anything he did could just make it worse.

Jameson grabbed John's hair and yanked it so that John was looking up at him. "You have quite a mouth on you, don't you?"  John briefly wondered if he'd gotten it from Sherlock but chose to remain silent. 

Jameson contemplated John for a moment before pulling back and knocking the chair, and John, over.  Immediately, John's head was spinning, and when Sherlock made another outraged noise against his will at the sight, Jameson left John and paced instead towards Sherlock.  "I don't believe we've met."

"We haven't," Sherlock replied simply, voice taut.  Jameson's attention was on him now, and this was good.  It would give John a chance to recover, maybe think of some miraculous escape plan that Sherlock was not, as of yet, seeing.

"You live with Watson."

"Correct," Sherlock said curtly.

"Has he ever let _you_ down before? Left you behind? Alone? To die?"

"Never."

"Well aren't you special?" he sneered.

Sherlock resisted the urge to say yes.

"Oi, Watson," Jameson called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "What makes this guy so much better than me? Than Crawford?"

Any answer John gave would be wrong. Being silent would be wrong. There was honestly nothing he could do to make this situation better. "Well, he never kidnapped me." At the very least, he could keep Jameson's attention on him.

"That so?" the goliath drawled, voice low.

"He's also not as big of a dick as you always were on the field," John added. "Which is fairly impressive, as he really is an annoying dick a lot of the time."

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"Think you're funny, do you?" Jameson stormed back across the room and kicked John in the chest, repeatedly, until he succeeded in ripping a cry from John's throat. "You think I'm playing games, here?" John was silent, because while he wanted Jameson to focus on him, he wasn't so keen on Jameson actually kicking him to death. Not before he thought of a way out of this.

By the second kick, Sherlock was heaving himself forward in the chair so hard that the thing scooted.  He made it several inches towards Jameson, murder in his heart.  Jameson noticed, giving a particularly hard kick before pausing, eyes turning towards Sherlock.

"Shallow breaths," Sherlock ordered John as Jameson approached.

"Seems your friend doesn't like me pushing you around."

"Friends are like that," John shot back, voice tight.

"Husband," Sherlock spat.  "Shall we just?  I am his _husband_ and I will tear your still-beating chambers from your ribcage the _instant_ I am free from here."

John sighed.  Sherlock ignored his exasperated expression, staring Jameson down.

"Husband, huh?" he asked, looking between the two.

Sherlock simply maintained his best 'I am a psycho and I'm deadly serious' glare.

"Somehow you don't really scare me..." he mused, looking Sherlock up and down.

"Not yet."

Jameson huffed out a short, unimpressed laugh, moving back to John and pulling the chair upright. John bit back a huff of pain at the sudden, not at all gentle, movement.

Sherlock's fists clenched behind his back, then he noticed that John was glaring at him for revealing useful information to the enemy.  Sherlock spared just a moment to roll his eyes at him for this.  In response, John gave him another Look— how could Sherlock ever think that information was good to share? Sherlock Looked at him sarcastically sweetly back.

"I _am_ still here," Jameson reminded them.

"Well done," Sherlock said condescendingly, not looking away from John.

Jameson scowled and kicked John.  Sherlock shut up.

"The pair of you really like to talk. Wonder what it will take to shut you both up?"

Sherlock remained shut up, gazing at John who was hiding it well but was clearly in quite a lot of pain.  For once, the terrible situation they were in wasn't Sherlock's fault—it was John's past, not his.  Strangely, though, he felt just as much responsibility to protect John as he did in the many times it was.

"How those ribs doing?" Jameson asked, jabbing at John's chest.

John sucked in a sharp breath and bit his lip and Sherlock decided that Jameson would be losing his skin when (if) he got out of this chair.

"That was a question." Jameson jabbed him again, harder. This time John couldn't suppress a yelp, and Jameson smirked.

"They're broken," Sherlock answered for him, loudly.

"You think so? I'm not so sure," Jameson said, considering John.

"I know what he looks like when he has broken ribs," Sherlock snapped.  "It looks like that.  Again I say, well done.  Are you proud of yourself?  Beating a tied man?"

"It's rather satisfying, yes."

"Dull," Sherlock sighed.

Jameson turned and struck Sherlock across the cheek, glancing at John for his reaction. John managed to keep a fairly good straight face despite the spike of rage.

"Aren't you _clever_ ," Sherlock cooed.

Jameson scowled and hit him again, harder. John resisted the urge to start yelling abuse at him.

Sherlock yawned.  "Ow," he said flatly.

Jameson growled and punched him twice more in succession.

Assuming they survived, he was going to have a very-blue black eye.  Sherlock affixed Jameson with an interested look.  "This is boring.  I have a suggestion."

"Oh?"

"You're annoyed with me," he said, "but the one you really want to destroy is John.  Assuming I understand you correctly."

"Sherlock," John said lowly. He felt like he knew where this was going.

Jameson said nothing but continued watching Sherlock.

"And he married me.  Obviously he loves me.  So the best thing you could do to hurt him is to hurt me."  He leaned forward as much as he could, which was mostly just his head.  "I don't want him hurt.  I don't care if _I'm_ hurt, but if I'm hurt it will torture him.  You want him tortured.  I propose a game."


	2. Gameplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We probably don't need to say this in a kidnapping/torture fic, but trigger warning!

"What kind of game?" Jameson asked, interested.

"He's doing this just so he doesn't have to watch you hurt me," John interjected loudly.

"Of course I am.  I already pointed that out," Sherlock dismissed immediately.  He didn't take his eyes off Jameson.  "Untie me.  I know you have a weapon, so it's not a threat for me to have my hands.  And then tell me to do something.  Anything, except to kill myself or lay a finger on John.  I will do it.  If I don't, you may do it to John.  Ten things.  Anything at all.  But if I do all ten, we leave without further harm."

Jameson considered this. "An interesting prospect. But I'm not sure how much I trust this game of yours. After all, if I say, tell you to slice open your arm, what's stopping you from coming at me?"

"The gun you have in your trousers."

"Good eyes."

Sherlock rolled his good eyes.

"This goes against what you want!" John exclaimed desperately. "You said you wanted to make me bleed. He'll do whatever you want. That means we'll both get out of here alive, and I'll be fine. Is that really what you want?"

Jameson regarded him coolly.  "You're desperate.  Just like Crawford and I were.  That's good enough."

"I'm not desperate," John lied loudly. "I just think you're being a fucking idiot."

Jameson rolled his eyes.  "Right.  Definitely playing the game."

Now that Jameson was facing Sherlock, John worked harder at the knots binding him. Jameson would say some horrible things. Sherlock would do them. Any of them. And there was no chance Jameson would just let them go. He had to get free to stop him, and he had to do it carefully to avoid being noticed.

Sherlock hoped that John would understand that he didn't actually desire to play this game and that he would take this as an opportunity to get them the fuck out of here.  "Well?" he asked boredly.  Jameson pulled out the gun, moving to untie Sherlock. He kept the gun pressed to the back of his head as he did away with the knots.  Sherlock rubbed his wrists now that he was free.  "Still waiting, you know."

"We'll start simple," Jameson said, kicking the blade towards Sherlock. "I want you to cut yourself. At least one slice on each limb."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  He took the knife.  He rolled up his sleeves.  With a clever flick of the, he nicked his upper arm on the outside, where there were fewer veins.  Then he rolled up his trousers and placed good, deep ones on his shins.  It stung but it barely registered between his focus on the situation and the fact that he'd been hurt so much worse over the course of his career.

Jameson scowled at Sherlock's lack of reaction.  "Fine," he said, put out.  "Second, I want you to... rip a big chunk of hair out of your scalp."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  Really?  That was a bit demented.  He shrugged and seized some of his hair.  "Sufficient?"

Jameson considered this.  "Seems good enough. Get to it, then."

Sherlock tugged.  It didn't come out.  He frowned.  He pulled harder.  Still didn't come out, but it did smart.

"I'm waiting."

"Give me a minute," he snapped.  "It's harder than it looks."

"Fine. You have one minute exactly."  He pointedly aimed his gun more accurately at a stoic but faltering John.

Sherlock loosened his teeth so that they wouldn't shatter and gave a mighty yank.  His legs gave out on him, stunned by his betrayal evidently, and he landed on the floor, stunned, eyes running.  " _Damn_."  He stared at the handful of hair and scalp he now held.  It remained curly.

"Good, good," Jameson praised, glancing at John who was watching Sherlock, horror-struck.

Sherlock just kept staring at his hair.  It was so _strange_.

"Moving on now, and maybe a time limit on each number...?"

Sherlock got to his feet, pushing away the throbbing in his scalp and dropping the clump in his hand.  He wondered if it was bleeding (it was) but realized that touching it would be unwise.  Truly, outside of the agony, it was fascinating.  "What's next?"

Jameson didn't take long to contemplate, which Sherlock felt revealed something about the man.  "Cut along your ribs," he said. "Not deep enough to kill you I suppose. But I want to see the blood."

"How many of them?" Sherlock asked, undoing his shirt buttons calmly.

"Oh, let's go with all of them. Why not, right?" he asked, shooting a grin towards John. John was stiff, not wanting to watch but scared of what Jameson might do if he looked away.

Sherlock took off his shirt.  Slow cuts would be worse, so he quickly traced his top left rib with the knife.  He bit his inner cheek.  It was worse than his arms and legs.  "Like that?" he asked tightly.

Jameson simply nodded and waited. "One minute," he reminded him. "Or we'll be doing all of them to John instead."

One minute was not a lot of time.  In a way, it was good, because he wasn't able to focus on the pain until he had made all of the cuts.  He managed within the minute, at which point he stared at the blood as it dripped rather artfully down his torso.  Red on white.  He felt a little dizzy.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Jameson said to the room as a whole.  Sherlock internally agreed, but John thought he might be sick. He struggled against the ropes, harder now, because Sherlock already looked out of it and there were seven things to go.

Sherlock was... just a little dizzy.  Not... _too_ dizzy.  But dizzy.  He looked up at Jameson, who seemed to be a little stretched out for some reason.  "Next?" he asked as drily as he could.

Again, he didn’t have to stop long to think.  "Stick the knife under all ten of your fingernails. I'd say to rip them out, but I don't have the proper tools for that."

"Purely for logistical reasons, I will require more than a minute," Sherlock said after a pause.

"You'll have a minute. Any you don't finish, I'll do to your man. And that's me being generous."

Sherlock didn't waste more time.  He shoved the knife under his thumbnail.  His hand jerked away in protest, crumpling a bit.  He hesitated briefly before doing it to the next nail, and the next.  Eventually it hurt so much that the added pain didn't really register.  There was some trouble taking the knife in the hand he had just decimated, and even more trouble aiming at the small space under his fingernails on the new hand, but he barely, /just/ barely, got it done.  He dropped the knife and moaned, flexing his fingers which did not help a bit.

John was shaking from watching Sherlock. It was possibly one of the worst things he'd ever seen, watching Sherlock torture himself. For him. For someone from _his_ past. It wasn't right. "Sherlock, let me take one of them. Please. You can't...you don't have to do this."

Sherlock looked at John when John spoke, and his determination was renewed.  It was selfish, he knew.  John's psychological state would be crushed by this.  But he simply couldn't let it happen any other way.  Not John.

He knew that look and he realized he shouldn't have spoken.  Too late now.  "Listen to me, you _idiot_ ," he demanded.  "This is because of me.  You don't get to just do this."

Sherlock turned his face away.

"Next," Jameson said, glee in his voice. "Break one of your fingers."

"Sherlock, don't," John said quickly, pulling against the ropes. "You need...to play. Just don't."

He didn't specify a finger, so Sherlock decided he was getting a pinkie.  Smallest, most fragile.  He took it between his thumb and first finger and snapped it back.  It cracked, and immediately he clutched it to his chest, growling at the pain, curling over his poor hand.  "What else?" he said coldly, not yet able to straighten up.  Jameson watched him, pleased, but didn't say anything.  Sherlock looked up at him through his hair, which was now matted from his definitely-bleeding scalp.  Slowly, he uncurled his back, holding his hand close to him protectively.  "What else!"

Jameson silently moved back into the shadows of the room, keeping the gun aimed at John's head. John stopped struggling with the knots, turning pleading eyes on Sherlock. "Please don't do this anymore. This is my problem. _My_ past. Just let me deal with it."

"Like you let me deal with all my problems alone?" he asked.  His voice was even and controlled and he kept his eyes on the creeping Jameson.  Interesting, he moved just like John when John was on the prowl.  "Like how you abandoned me when I relapsed, or when I infuriated that Duke?"

"You're always the one being hurt. You got hurt those times, too.  Just let him hurt me. Like you let them hurt you for your past. This isn't right."

"No.  I can't watch this happen to you," he said simply.

"That's not fair!" John raged, knowing it was pointless.  "It's worse for me to watch it happen to you. Let it happen. Sherlock, if you love me you'll listen to me about this."

"Yes," he said emotionlessly.  "But I'm not the one tied up right now."

John made a loud noise of frustration and grit his teeth.  " _Sherlock_."

The man in question walked carefully closer to John.  "In case he takes my lips," he said quietly, and he leaned in to kiss him softly.

"Oi!  Back up!" Jameson shouted.

Sherlock did.  "I wasn't untying him," he said calmly.  "I was kissing him."

"Not part of the game." He threw a bottle at Sherlock's feet and it shattered. "But this is.  Saw this in the corner, over here.  Shoes off, lovebird, and walk."

"Stop this," John demanded, to Jameson instead. "It's me you want. I left you and Crawford to bleed and die. Did it on purpose, laughed at you while I sat safely in the base.  Make me bleed. I know you like this game but imagine how disappointed you'll be if you waited all these years to get out of here without slicing into me."

Jameson considered this. "The blood wasn't the worst part," he decided eventually as Sherlock took off his shoes carefully with just the knuckles of one hand.  It was difficult without fingertips but he'd once burnt his hands fairly badly with acid and he'd learned to do lots of things with his knuckles.  "It was watching Crawford suffer and die.  Someone I cared about.  And _still_ not leaving him, until there was no reason to stay.  That horror.  That's what I want for you, and I seem to be getting it."  He turned back to Sherlock.  "Walk," he commanded.

This was on the creative side, Sherlock acknowledged.  He always did like his criminals a bit mad.  They were more interesting that way.  Unfortunately that extended to torture.  So, for his sixth trial, Sherlock walked across glass.

At the first step, his body jolted and tried to get him to step away.  He took another step, and that foot had the same reaction although a bit less strong.  When he tried to make his right foot go again, however, it crumbled and he nearly went down.  He caught himself at the last moment, and hurried the last few steps until he was on the other side.  He sat down instantly and started pulling out the larger shards of glass, blood flowing freely, trying not to whimper each time he extracted one.  He didn't look at John.

"Fine, you win," John said blankly.  "You got what you wanted. Just do it to me instead."

"Those aren't the rules," Jameson replied, delighted.  "Your man said ten; that was six.  You really got yourself a loyal one, didn't you?  I'm surprised.  I didn't think you knew about loyalty."

John had never felt quite so sick and guilty in his entire life. He knew that pleading with him only made it worse, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't do anything else. He was just sitting there, useless, watching Sherlock take the punishment that should have been his.

"Tell me the next thing before I pass out," Sherlock snapped from the floor.

Jameson smirked at him. "Pick up one of those shards of glass and slide it across your gums for me."

That was really more gross than anything else, considering the glass shards were currently slippery with his foot-blood.  Sherlock picked one up as daintily as he could, considering his fingertips and his pinkie.  He opened his mouth and with some contortion, managed to trace a decent cut there.  He did it again to his lower gum.  He put the glass down and spat blood.  It was a strange sting but mouth wounds healed faster than almost anywhere else on the body and it was already not unbearable.  On the other hand, he wasn't sure if he could stand anymore because of his mutilated feet.

Jameson considered them, a bit disappointed by his choice that time, and looked between John and Sherlock.  Clearly there was a lot of devotion there and he wanted to do something that would fuck them up for good if he did decide to let them go, which at the moment he wasn't planning to.  Thoughtfully, he moved a few feet from John, re-aligning the gun at his head, and turned back to Sherlock.  "Eight," he said, philosophically.  "Crawl over here and suck me off."

John reacted very violently to that, yanking the unmoving ropes around his wrists. He bent over, his ribs protesting, but he pushed past that. Had to push past that. "Don't you fucking dare, Sherlock! Don't."

Sherlock made a face at the thought but it wouldn't hurt and Sherlock definitely lacked shame.  He walked over on his knees, wobbling a bit as a spell of dizziness came and went, leaving a trail of torso and foot blood behind him.  He briefly stopped to hope that Jameson didn't have some horrible STD.  He also briefly stopped to wonder if he should make a snide comment about getting off on torture porn.  He decided not to.  He made it to Jameson and simply went for his trouser buttons.

John wasn't working so much on the knots as he was straining against them. His ribs and head were both screaming at him to stay still, but he only had eyes for Sherlock and what Sherlock was about to do. "Sherlock, please. Please don't, this is sick. Don't do it. Make me do it it's my fault."

He tilted his head at John (causing the world to spin a little) and gave him a quick, confused look.  "I don't see how you doing this is better or worse than me doing it."  He got Jameson's trousers and pants down.  He wondered if Jameson was normally gay or just really liked torture.

"If you bite, I'll shoot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then looked back at John who was now going at his ropes with a vengeance.  Apparently he had nothing else to say, so Sherlock simply went down on Jameson.

John tried very hard to ignore Jameson's moaning, which he was sure he'd tuned up just because John was listening, and focused on the ropes.  Sherlock didn't particularly want Jameson to enjoy this.  On the other hand, he wasn't interested in dragging this activity out.  He compromised by tightening his lips, moving fast, and keeping suction high but employing far from his best technique.  He tasted different than John.  Sherlock didn't like it.

John had still resisted watching.  He wouldn't have guessed, this morning, that this would be something that would happen to them, today.  Sherlock didn't even like giving blowjobs in the first place.  But, John realized, this meant that Jameson was distracted, and from his sounds probably close to coming. And John was getting the knots loose.

Sherlock really hoped John was making progress on the ropes.  He did a particular swirl of his tongue, a particularly hard suck, and then Jameson was coming.  Yuck.  The very moment it was over, he sat back on his heels to put some distance between them.  He hesitated before deciding to spit or swallow.  Probably, one would be very, very wrong.

Jameson took this moment to look at John's expression and chuckled, finding him sufficiently distressed. "Your beloved has quite a lovely mouth." He laughed louder when John cringed.

While he wasn't looking, Sherlock quietly spit.

"You're fucking sick," John informed the kidnapper.

"No more sick than a man who leaves his comrades behind and lets his husband suck off other people," he said simply, putting himself away.

"I didn't _let him_!" John shook his head wildly in denial, which made the room spin a bit.  "I did not _let_ him I'd rather it was me!"

Jameson smirked.  "Ready, Mrs. Watson?" he asked, looking down at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, scooting backwards a bit to be further from him.

"Pick up that knife," he said, gesturing to it, "and slice your eyes."

For the first time, Sherlock froze.

John worked on the knots more furiously. He was so close. If he could just get them a bit looser. "Don't you dare, Sherlock! You will not lose your eyes for me. Let me take it. You need them."

For a wild moment, Sherlock honestly considered letting John have this one.  He was right, wasn't he?  Didn't Sherlock need his eyes more than John did?  He looked over at John, wide-eyed, and then back at the knife.  Shakily, he picked it up.

"It's logical!" John said, voice growing desperate. "Think of the work. Most of our income. It keeps you sane. And you need your eyes. And I'll never forgive myself if you do this. Or you. Don't do this Sherlock you can't do this." He needed more time. Just a bit more time to get them loose...

Sherlock held the knife on his lap, point toward him, staring at it.  He looked at John again, then back at it.

"Please Sherlock, don't make me responsible for this." He barely recognized his own voice for how terrified he sounded. "This is because of me. Don't do it."

Sherlock slowly, uncertainly lifted the blade, looking at it.  Then he closed his eyes.

"No!" John used whatever strength was left in his arms to finally, somehow, tear the ropes away. He stood, and it didn't matter that his ribs were broken or that the world tilted upon standing, he made a leap for Jameson.

Jameson simply caught him by one wrist, then swung him around to catch the other.  He shifted them both into the same hand and then wrenched them up over John's head.  He lifted, and then John was dangling by his arms, with broken ribs.  Sherlock tightened his lips and forced his eyes to the ceiling.  He began to deliver the knife to his eye...

John grit his teeth and kicked out at Jameson as hard as he could. Considering the state he was in, it was very hard. Jameson grunted, distracted. He wasn't paying attention to the gun. He kneed at him and Jameson swore. John did it again. It hurt, God it hurt, but if it was enough. If Sherlock heard, if it made Sherlock stop...

Sherlock paused, in-tact eyes darting from the ceiling to John to Jameson, at which point they focused like lasers on the loose grip in which the gun was being held.  He made his body a promise: do this, now, and then done.  At John's next, powerful flail, Sherlock launched himself strategically at Jameson's knees, knocking him over.  The gun skittered from his hand, going off in a random direction.  Sherlock held on to Jameson with a death grip.

Jameson practically howled with rage. His legs struck out at Sherlock furiously, but Sherlock had wrapped around them and he couldn't move. John had fallen to the floor with him and lay, stunned, beside him. His ribs had hit the floor hard. Jameson grabbed for him, hand snagging in John's shirt, but he didn't have a weapon, couldn't reach his weapon, and outside of trying to make John's previous injuries worse, there wasn't much he could do.

"For the love of God, John," Sherlock barked, "get the gun!"

John forced his arms to move, somehow managing to get out of Jameson's grip and rolling away. His hands clutched at the floor as he tried to ground himself. Finally he got his eyes to focus long enough to find the gun and he crawled towards it.

With his arms now John-less, Jameson struck out at Sherlock, hard enough to loosen his grip. He lunged towards John, but Sherlock hadn't let go. Instead of grabbing the gun all he managed to do was put enough weight on John to stop him from getting closer to it. He kicked out at Sherlock in an attempt to make him let go, trying to literally crawl over John to reach the firearm.  Sherlock choked in pain and tried to just hold on tighter.  "John, _please_ ," he begged. 

John couldn't breathe and he was pretty sure his ribs would never recover. Painfully, he stretched. He dragged himself closer to the gun, barely moving under Jameson's weight, but still moving. His fingers just brushed it and God, less than an inch and he'd _have_ it...

Seeing this, Sherlock bit down hard on the Jameson flesh that was nearest him, which happened to be Jameson's thigh.  The huge man howled at the bite and used one hand to swat at Sherlock, getting him in the face.  It was too much.  Sherlock's world tilted, stilled, and then everything went dark.

Jameson's weight was suddenly on top of John's a _lot_ more heavily. John didn't even have the breath to cry out as Jameson crushed him, hand reaching above his for the gun. John called on every bit of strength and fear he had in him and reached, hands somehow reaching the handle and wrapping around it.

Jameson gave one last heave but missed.

John couldn't get away. He didn't have time to think. He turned and shot Jameson at point blank range.

Jameson's full weight came down on John. Dead. Instantly. John struggled, hands scraping against the floor for purchase, but he couldn't find any. He couldn't drag himself out from under him, and he couldn't flip Jameson off either. "Sherlock?" he called, voice tight, not only from the pain, but because he was terrified of what had to have happened to make a determined Sherlock let go.  "Sherlock." He pressed his head to the floor, trying to find the breath to speak louder. "Sherlock, I need you."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and he twitched.

John twisted his head, trying to see around Jameson's body. He could just barely see Sherlock on the floor, on the other side of the dead giant. "Sherlock!" He put all he could into the shout, and if he could have curled in on himself from the resulting pain, he would have. As it was, he simply closed his eyes and prayed that Sherlock would wake up, or they'd both be lying there unconscious without help coming.

Sherlock's eyes shot open and he started, the jerking motion hurting him badly.  "John?" he gasped.

"Thank God," he groaned. "I can't... I can't move him. Can you? Or call for help? Something."

Sherlock's brain was moving very, very slowly and he dimly registered it as blood loss.  He wriggled slowly over to Jameson's corpse and pressed against it with his head to move it off.

"Not helping, Sherlock," John managed weakly.

Sherlock shoved as hard as he could with his shoulder.  The corpse barely moved.  Things were getting dark again.  And cold.  Sherlock was cold.  "Chilly in here," he mumbled.

_Fuck._ "Together, let's move him together," John said loudly.  "Or...a phone. Just leave him here and see if he has a phone."  He really couldn't breathe. He kept his breaths short and shallow.

"Has a phone," Sherlock confirmed, each blink feeling heavy.  "Saw it when I fel.  Fellatia... ted.  Him."

"Can you reach it? I can't move." His voice was tight, and he was losing Sherlock. "Please Sherlock. Might've..." He inhaled sharply. "Punctured a lung. Need a-ambulance."

This broke through, just enough for Sherlock to heave himself upright and pat around for it.  He got it.  He blinked at it, fairly certain that he'd previously known how to work such objects.  He flopped over Jameson's body to put it in John's hand.

"Do you know where we are?" His hands were shaking so much that he got the number wrong twice.

"Mhm," Sherlock hummed cheerfully as he slumped back to the floor.  He curled up.

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck_. "Sherlock please. Need you. Need...you need to tell them-" He broke off because the shallowest and smallest of breaths hurt, and the more he spoke the worse it got. "Tell them. Have to tell them I can't." He pushed the phone towards Sherlock, hoping that he'd at least be able to manage this.

"Tri. Angulated the location.  By the taste of his ejac... certain fruit only sold..." he told the emergency responder on the other end of the phone.  Luckily he sounded dazed and hurt enough that the worker kept asking questions until she eventually pulled the actual address out of Sherlock's brain.  She correctly deduced that an ambulance was necessary, told him help would arrive shortly, and rang off.  Sherlock kept talking to the phone.  Now it was about fingernails.

"Sleepy," he informed the phone.

"Stay awake," John ordered.

"Shh," Sherlock told him, "I'm talking to the ambulance."

"They know where we are. Talk to me instead."

"It's cold.  'Sthat the tenth thing?" he slurred.

_Fuck shit fucking hell._ "Sherlock. Sherlock, I have a concussion. I need you to keep me awake. Can you do that?"

Sherlock nodded seriously, eyes closing.

"You'll make sure I don't fall asleep?"

He forced them open and nodded seriously again.  They closed again.

"I really want to sleep, Sherlock," John said. His voice was already faint, so he didn't even have to fake that. "Don't let me. Or a coma. Could die. So don't let me sleep."

Sherlock whimpered and got his eyes open for another few seconds.

"Really tired," John said, voice slurring.

Sherlock whimpered again but he was losing.

"Don't let me die, Sherlock," John said, voice quiet.

"Not fair," he whimpered.  "Was only ten.  Said ten."

"Can't leave you. Keep me awake."

With one final whine of effort, Sherlock blacked out.

"Fuck, Sherlock." John had an arm free, and used it to shake Sherlock. "Come on, don't do this. Don't do this. Where the hell is that ambulance?" He'd lost a lot of blood. John tried again to push Jameson off of himself, succeeding only in jabbing his ribs. Black danced across his vision and he swore again. He couldn't black out too. He had to stay awake and help Sherlock.  He dropped his head to the floor, exhausted, and waited for the sirens to arrive.


	3. After

Things were- consciousness was- splotchy for a while, when Sherlock came to in the hospital.  He felt John's hand holding his, knew whose it was without opening his eyes.  Could only be his husband.  It felt different though.  He realized he had bandages over his hands.  Fingernails, he remembered.  John was here, he was safe, he could go back to sleep.  As he began to nod off, though, he sensed another person in the room, and cracked his eyes to find out who it was.  Oh, of course.  Mycroft.  Watching him coolly but with that understated worry he always had whenever Sherlock was nearly dead in the hospital.  Had Sherlock been nearly dead?  Was he now nearly dead?  He didn't really want to die.  But no, if he were nearly dead, John would be holding tighter and begging him not to go.  He had lost blood.  Mycroft was favoring his arm.  Damn, Mycroft had given him blood.  Disgusting.  Better than being dead, though.  He turned his cracked gaze to John, who was looking at him anxiously.  "'Lo," he mumbled to relieve as much of that expression as he could.

"You complete, fucking, _idiot_."

Right, well, not welcome back at the moment.  Sherlock nodded back off.

John glared at Sherlock for falling back asleep, resting his head on Sherlock's bed heavily.

* * *

Sherlock woke up again later that night.  That time, it was to doctors poking at him and doing things to his torso.  A nurse was lifting up his lips.  How strange.  He blinked at the fuss being made over his body but didn't protest.

Mycroft had got John a bed in the same room, as he was still being monitored for his lungs. He was sleeping the second time Sherlock woke up.

* * *

The next time he woke up, he was up for a solid eight hours, but he and John could never seem to be awake at the same time for very long.  Things were done to him, and to John, directions were given.  They were released after what felt, to Sherlock, like a million years.  Now, they were returning (slowly and laboriously) to the flat.  To Sherlock's relief, John had stopped yelling at him every time they managed to be awake at the same time.  He held John tightly, allowing himself to be helped up their million stairs and trying to help John with his broken ribs at the same time. 

They were both a mess by the time they reached the top. John closed the door and immediately led them towards the sofa.  Sherlock sat down carefully, placing a hand on John's back to guide him gently down next to him as well.  John leaned against the back of the sofa, taking several deep breaths before turning towards his partner. "How are you? Alright?"

"Violently alive," Sherlock replied.  Scooting was easier for him than for John, so he did it to make them closer.  He had bandages over his ribs, his hands, his feet, and the cuts he'd made on each limb.  There was a cast on his pinkie that frankly made him feel absurd.  Around these things, he tried to get to John.

"Careful," John said, catching Sherlock's arm lightly. "Don't hurt yourself, okay?"

"Yes, John," he said, kissing John's cheek softly.

"Hurt enough already."

He nuzzled him.

John wanted to press in closer, but that would hurt them both. He couldn't even hold Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock rested there, pressed lightly against John.  "Will it hurt you if I put my head on your shoulder?"

"No."

He put it there.

John leaned his head against Sherlock's. Sherlock did too much for him. Sherlock shouldn't have even been there, let alone been tortured for something from John's pa-

Sherlock yelped and cringed away when John's head landed on the still-sore patch of ripped-up scalp.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," John cried, jerking away violently. He scrambled back, ignoring his ribs, to put distance between them.

"Wait, no, come back," Sherlock said, reaching for him.  "Come back."

John shook his head. "I'll just hurt you."

"No, it's just logistics."  The panic in John's voice when he pulled away had shaken him.  "I'll shift.  Please?"

"Just...you just sit." He studied Sherlock's face before carefully leaning in and pressing a shaky kiss to Sherlock's temple, where there was no damage. "I'll make tea. Then come back. You just sit here."

Sherlock felt really, incredibly helpless as he simply watched John walk away.  He couldn't exactly stand up and walk after him.  Well, he _could_...

John took his time making tea, forcing himself to calm down. He's just be careful around Sherlock. Really careful. He'd let Sherlock touch and do the arranging. That way he'd not hurt him anymore. He moved back to the living area with two mugs.

Sherlock had not missed how long John had spent in the kitchen but didn't point it out, looking instead at the mug he was being offered and wondering if he would be able to hold it.  He tried with mixed results.  As John sat down, he watched him, silent.

"If you wanted biscuits," John mumbled, looking away as he sat down, certain that Sherlock wouldn’t want to be observed as he struggled with a mug, "I'm sure we have some. Or Mrs. Hudson does."

"No."  He was silent for a bit longer.  John had taken a long time in the kitchen, and now he wasn't looking at him or touching him.  Sherlock watched him and got more and more nervous in his own head until he blurted, "It doesn't count, right?"

John blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

He fidgeted.  "The eighth thing.  The oral sex.  It doesn't count as... infidelity, right?  Is that why you're mad?"

"What? No. That wasn't...no. I'm not mad. You're fine."

Hesitantly, Sherlock scooted back in.

John watched him warily. "Just... _careful_."

"Not a masochist," he promised, wiggling around until they were fairly close.  John let him move in, but didn't move any closer himself. He sipped at his tea.  Sherlock sipped at his own, trying not to read into the lack of touching on John's end.  John had said he wasn't mad, so he wasn't mad.  He turned his head and kissed John's shoulder, firmly.  Maybe that would initiate something.

John wanted to lean in and kiss him, or hold him. Something. But with all of Sherlock's injuries he was sure he'd just hurt him. So he just shot Sherlock a smile instead.  Sherlock smiled back, feeling cold inside.  He put his head on John's shoulder and stared forward.  He'd known this could happen: that making John watch what he did to himself would possibly break them.  He didn't regret it, though.

John didn't lean on him this time, considering the state of his scalp.  Having Sherlock near him was good.  Maybe John had to keep his distance, but Sherlock could get close if he wanted. Sherlock deserved it. After all, he was only hurt because of him.

Eventually Sherlock couldn't handle the tension anymore.  "Bed," he announced.

"Course. Here I can take that." He took Sherlock's mug carefully.  He got rid of the mugs then led them to the bedroom, helping Sherlock to get horizontal and then getting in carefully next to him.

"Got your sleeping brace?" Sherlock mumbled as he burrowed his face into his glorious pillow.

John hummed an affirmative.

"Just-" he yawned, "-checking."

"Thanks."  He watched him.  He wanted to kiss him goodnight, but Sherlock's face was all bundled into his pillow and he looked settled.  He wasn't going to ask him to move just for that.  "Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, my love," Sherlock replied softly.

John smiled a bit at the words and closed his eyes, falling asleep fairly quickly despite his worry.

* * *

_It was dark.  It was very, very incredibly dark.  It was dark like it had been when he'd been blinded for several weeks after an incident with acid, and Sherlock felt terror setting in, kicking up his heart rate, increasing his blood pressure, excreting corticosteroids into his bloodstream.  He crawled out of bed, bumping into something.  He apologized aloud, in case it was John.  He patted around and discovered it was the lamp post.  He kept walking, feeling his way to the sitting room.  He remembered the layout of the flat blind, which helped him avoid the chair John had recently moved to the foot of the stairs.  When Sherlock approached the chair, however, idly pushing aside the bead curtain that hung in the hall, he sensed someone was sitting there.  He could smell this person, and it wasn't John.  It was, however, a smell he remembered, because he had had his face in it and his mouth on it.  "Jameson," he said, scowling.  "Where is John?"_

_"Not here," Jameson said simply.  Sherlock heard him stand up, his enormous bulk causing the floor to creak.  "Now, I'm here for you.  I'll tie you up- get a better knot this time- and then what we did?  We'll do it again, except John will be the one dancing."  Jameson grinned, his teeth were all different colors of blood red and brown.  Sherlock knew Jameson had just eaten some of the glass Sherlock had cut his feet with._

_"No," he said a bit frantically.  "You said you'd let us go after ten."_

_"But you never did ten.  John shot me before ten happened.  Now I want my tenth."_

_"Anything," Sherlock said sharply.  "Of course.  But don't switch this to John dancing."_

_But Jameson was already shaking his head.  He opened his mouth to say something..._

_And then a loud BANG and a bullet split the air, and Jameson's head exploded.  Bits of it landed on Sherlock, but Sherlock only had eyes for John, who was now pointing the gun at him instead.  His entire expression was completely cold.  "I told you I would never forgive you," John said, voice like ice.  "I told you."_

"Sherlock!" John shook his arm, panic in his voice. He'd never seen Sherlock have nightmares like this. He'd never heard Sherlock actually cry out in his sleep before. He shook harder. "Wake up, it's a dream, wake up."

_Now, John was shouting at him, making no sense but leveling the gun._

_"Please," Sherlock begged him.  "I'm sorry.  I know it was selfish, but I'm selfish.  This isn't news.  John, please!"  But John's face was unmoved._

Sherlock was _whimpering_. He shook harder, yelling now. "Sherlock _wake up_!"

Sherlock shot straight up with an undignified snort and a cry of pain from what his jolting did to his multitude of cuts, twisting away from whatever was grabbing his arm, probably Jameson, that man didn't seem to ever _die_...

John let go, realizing that he'd probably been hurting him. "Sherlock it's me, it's me, you're fine."

"It's me, you're fine," Sherlock echoed frantically, blinking hard and whipping his head around to look for the man who had nearly killed them both.

"It's John. We're both home."  Sherlock clamored for him so John held his arm lightly. "Alright? Are you alright? We're safe."

"Yes," he said, blinking some more, clutching John's arms.  "Alright."

"You sure?"

He was calming down now.  "Yes.  Fine.  Just a dream."  He looked around uneasily.  "Right?"

"Right. We're here, and we're fine."

Sherlock put his forehead against John's, taking comfort in his warmth despite the content of his dream.  "I don't usually have nightmares," he observed.

"I know."

"So why did I have a nightmare?" he asked, shifting and flinching.

"Because you dealt with something horrible, I imagine."

"Oh.  Right.  Of course."

John pulled back to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "But you're okay now."

Instantly, Sherlock pressed closer to John's lips.  He didn't even notice he'd done so until he had.

"It's okay now," John said. "Just tell me what you need and I can get it, or do it."

Sherlock looked at John harder.  He couldn't read him.  He stared.

"Sherlock?"

"What's wrong with you?" he asked bluntly.

John frowned. "Wrong with me? Nothing. Was just trying to help."

Sherlock frowned back.  "Then why are you..."  He shifted closer with his whole body, staring at him intensely.

"Why am I...what?"

He leaned forward to kiss John softly.

John kissed him back, pulling away slowly to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Why am I what?"

"You're all..." Sherlock searched for the word.  "Blank."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know..." he stroked down the side of John's face.

"I don't know what you mean me to change," John said quietly.

He removed his hand.  "It's like you're not there," he mumbled.  "I don't know."

He didn't like what Sherlock was saying and he didn't know what he was doing wrong. "I'm sorry."

"So you're not doing it on purpose, then," Sherlock concluded.  "Then what?  Are you angry?"  He touched John's face again, kissing him once more.  "Do your ribs hurt, and you don't want me to know?  Are you..." he struggled for more suggestions.

John's hand slowly covered Sherlock's, being careful of the bandages. "I'm a bit angry that you did what you did, but mostly I just feel horribly about it. All of it."

"Only a bit angry?" Sherlock asked, surprised.  "Then I got off lucky."

He was too busy being horrified to be angry. He kissed Sherlock again, lightly.

Sherlock sighed, eyes lingering closed when John pulled back.  "Bit better."

John watched him, biting his lower lip. He didn't understand. What was it Sherlock wanted? "I don't know what I'm doing wrong," he admitted.

He shrugged.  "I don't know.  You're just... far."

"Sorry," he said again.

"I didn't mean..." He shook his head.  "I just want normal."

"I'm trying."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" he asked softly.

"Because you're making it sound like I'm trying to do this on purpose or something. I don't know what I'm supposed to fix."

"I don't think you're doing it on purpose," Sherlock defended himself.

"Well you're _looking_ at me like I am. Like it's my fault. Don't you think I want to get back to normal too?"

"Then why won't you touch me?" Sherlock demanded, responding to John's rising tone.  "You look at me like you're afraid of me!"

"Don't yell at me," John said in response to Sherlock's own rising voice. "This isn't my fault."

"What did I do to suggest it was your fault?"

"Your tone, for one thing."

"I'm just matching yours."

John took in a slow breath and leaned back against the pillows. "I don't want you to be angry with me."

Sherlock forced himself to calm as well.  "I just don't understand."

"I don't even know what you're confused about. I don't know how to change myself. I'm sorry that I'm not what you want right now. I'll adjust until I get it right, okay?"

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief.

"God, what now?"

"Nothing.  Sorry."  He forced his gaze away, feeling absolutely ill.

"It's obviously not nothing."

"It's _fine_.  I said sorry.  I wasn't being sarcastic."

"I didn't think you were." He watched Sherlock a moment longer before turning away. He didn't know what to do, or what was wrong, or what Sherlock wanted from him. It wasn't like he wasn't trying. He'd try whatever Sherlock wanted.

Still not looking, Sherlock fumbled for his hand.

John let Sherlock take it and held on, mindful of the bandages. He stared down at the bed. He'd have to figure out what he was doing wrong and fix it. That was all. He could do it. If Sherlock could do all...that...then John could certainly manage this much.

Sherlock didn't say anything else.


	4. Getting Better

Several days went by. Things were still off. John tried. He tried to keep Sherlock comfortable. He didn't complain about always getting up to make tea or get a laptop. It just made sense. Sherlock should be staying still. He tried talking, and not talking, but Sherlock wasn't...happy. John still didn't know what he was supposed to do, but he didn't bring it up again in case it made Sherlock angry. He really didn't want to start an argument.

Sherlock, however, was simply annoyed.  No matter what he did, he couldn't _get at_ John.  He knew John felt guilty, but they had been through things like this before so he didn't understand why John couldn't just apply that solution to this situation.  Sherlock would never be able to talk him out of feeling guilty.  John went through phases of talking to him and not talking to him, to which Sherlock could not find any rhyme or reason.  The only thing Sherlock could think of was that John was angrier than he let on about Sherlock hurting himself to protect him.  Maybe he felt demeaned; maybe he simply was mad that Sherlock had selfishly made him watch.  But Sherlock had always been selfish.  John had married him _knowing_ he was selfish.  The one thing he knew for sure was that John was acting differently, tense all the time and crazily subservient.  Of course, there were things Sherlock couldn't do without significant pain (his ribs, something was wrong with those, he should check them), but John had been acting like a servant.  Could it all be guilt?  Didn't there have to be more?

They were currently sitting on the sofa. John was reading a book, though he wasn't paying that close of attention to the plot. He was getting, for lack of a better word, desperate. Nothing he did was helping. Nothing he was doing was making Sherlock happy. If Sherlock could torture himself to keep John safe, why couldn't he even manage to make his husband happy? Even now, home and safe, Sherlock was hurting because of John. But last time they'd talked about it Sherlock had shut down. Said it was fine. What could he do except ask? Would it result in the same thing? He didn't want to hurt Sherlock anymore. He could admit that a part of him was angry at Sherlock for doing... that. Especially considering it was John's past, not Sherlock's. It hadn't surprised him though, and he certainly wouldn't leave over it. Either way, he wasn't going to bring it up now. So they continued sitting there, both unhappy but neither of them talking about it.

Sherlock sat there beside him, worrying about his marriage but being more and more distracted by how much the skin around his ribs hurt.  It hurt a _lot_.  In a quiet, throbbing, hot kind of way.  But he didn't want to show John, make this awkward atmosphere worse.  He would just look at it himself.

"Did you want dinner?" John asked, glancing up.

He felt a bit sick.  And not emotionally, for once.  "Um, no," he said uncertainly.

"Should eat," John said, without any real conviction. Sherlock had had a bit of breakfast, so he hadn't counted on him having dinner.

...A _lot_ a bit sick, actually. 

John looked back at his book.

"John..."  Sherlock swayed a bit.

He looked back up. "What's wrong?" he asked immediately.

"I don't, um."

"Does something hurt?" He observed the swaying. "Dizzy? What is it?"

Now that he mentioned it.  "Dizzy and... sick..."

John felt Sherlock's forehead. "You're hot," he said, frowning. He stood and carefully adjusted Sherlock. "Here. Just lie back. I'll get the thermometer."

Sherlock let himself be adjusted and said nothing.  Now John was going to worry about him.

He handed it over when he returned, leaving Sherlock again to get water. It was beeping by the time he got back. "You have a fever. Does something hurt?"

"Chest cuts hurt," he mumbled, trying to see the thermometer.

"Shirt off," John said, fingers already going to the buttons.  Sherlock let John take his shirt off, not even complaining when it hurt.  "Fuck, Sherlock," he said when he saw the state of them. "These are infected.  Not all of them, thank God."

Sherlock looked down at them.

"Should take you to the hospital for these."

The hospital?  No, he didn't want to go to the hospital.  He stared at John.

"Just... ok. I'll try and take care of it here but if I decide we're going to the hospital, we're going. No arguments."

Had Sherlock argued out loud?  He continued to stare.  "Ok."

"Ok." John went to work, treating the cuts, applying everything he knew about infections and hoping it would be enough.

John was touching him.  It was nice.  Maybe that meant John wasn't mad at him anymore.  He nodded to himself.  "How are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked as he worked.

"Better now," he replied cheerfully, putting his hand on John's leg where it was near him.  "Glad you're not leaving anymore."

"Leaving?" he asked, confused. "When was I leaving?"

"You're mad at me.  You were mad at me.  For being selfish."

"Not mad enough to leave," he said, staring at him.

"I know.  That's why I'm helping you with the cuts infection."

John blinked. "I was never leaving. I'm never going to leave."

"Not now.  Before, when you were."

"I was _never_ leaving."

"But you were being John is Feeling Guilty and Angry."

"That doesn't mean I'm leaving."

Sherlock appeared to think about this.

"Why would I leave you?"

"'M too selfish," he explained.

"I know that."

"But this time was too-too selfish."

"Just stop. I'm not leaving."

"Glad.  Would understand if you did."

"We're married. I'm not leaving so stop acting like I am."

"I stopped," Sherlock complained.  He cringed as a swipe of John's dressings brushed him wrong.

John's hand jerked back. "Good."  He resumed, more carefully.

"I love you," Sherlock said hesitantly.

"I love you too."

He was quiet for a bit.  "I don't want for the reason of you not leaving to be because we're married."  He squinted, trying to decide if that had made sense but unable to connect the thoughts.

"I'm not leaving because I love you."

"That's why I leave you too," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"Me too."

John finished up, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's forehead gently. "Just try and sleep."

"If I sleep, I don't have to hospital," Sherlock said conspiratorially, closing his eyes.

"Unless you get worse."

"To hospital," he agreed.

"Yes."

"I do," Sherlock said seriously.

"Just sleep, Sherlock."

Keeping his eyes closed, Sherlock flopped out his hand until he was touching some part of John.  He wasn't awake enough to know which.  "Take John to be.  I do."

John kissed Sherlock's forehead again. "I do too, Sherlock. Always. Now sleep."

"By the power vested in," he mumbled, and then he was asleep.

John stood there for several minutes, just watching, before eventually sitting down on the floor beside the sofa, leaning against it and watching Sherlock breathe.

* * *

Over the next few days, Sherlock recovered enough that John was satisfied that the hospital wasn't necessary, and while physically drained, he was at least mentally back to himself.  The infection, of course, only made John feel guiltier. He should have noticed something was wrong sooner. Why hadn't he noticed? 

Now that Sherlock was coherent again, everything was back to awkward and silent and confusing and Sherlock hated it.  He loathed it, despised it, and over the days he got angrier and angrier.

John was the reason Sherlock was hurt. Was later upset at home. Got infected. It wasn't right. Sherlock was still hurt. He still needed help around the flat with things and that was _still_ John's fault. He wished Sherlock would just heal so he'd not be so afraid to touch him. 

John was in the kitchen, making tea yet again, and Sherlock could practically hear the self-loathing oozing off of him.  Hear it from _here_.  It made him snap.  He stood, gritting his teeth against the pain of standing on stitched-up feet, and marched into the kitchen.

John heard him approach and turned, eyeing Sherlock's feet critically. "You need to move more carefully. The stitches."

"Go sit on the sofa," he said, ignoring this.

"What?"

"Go sit on the sofa.  I am sick to death of this.  We are talking even if it kills us both."

"We've been talking."

"Go sit on the sofa," Sherlock snapped.

John watched him a moment then slowly turned off the kettle and went to the sofa.

Sherlock marched right back out, eyeing John to make sure he was sitting where expected.  He sat down on the other end of the sofa and turned his body towards John's.  "Talk," he commanded.

"About?"

"You.  Us.  Your problems.  All of it."

"I don't know what you expect me to say."

"Shall I go first, then?"

"Please do."

Sherlock pressed his palms together and looked John in the eye.  "I am tired of this being awkward.  I don't understand why we can't seem to work this out.  I know you don't like what I did.  I can't read you anymore, and I want to know why."

"I don't know why. I don't know what might have changed to make you not able to read me. Last time we talked about this, you got angry with something I said."

"I didn't."

"You didn't seem interested in continuing the conversation."

"There's a difference between angry and nauseated," he insisted.

"Well then why were you nauseated?"

"Do you actually remember what you said?"

"Vaguely."

Sherlock's lips twisted.  "'I don't even know what you're confused about. I don't know how to change myself. I'm sorry that I'm not what you want right now. I'll adjust until I get it right, okay?'" Sherlock recited word for word.

John shifted. "So maybe it sounds not...great."

"I didn't want to continue that particular conversation because if I heard another word along those lines, I would lose my mind and simply never recover," Sherlock announced.  "But we're going to talk about it now."

"Okay."

"So as we were saying then.  Why can't I read you?  What are you keeping back?"  His voice finally went a bit gentler, though it required effort.  "It's killing us.  So talk."

"I'm not keep anything back. You know me. You know I feel guilty."

"Yes, but we've done almost exactly this several times before."

"So that means I should automatically not be guilty?"

"So," he corrected, "we have fixed it every other time.  Or more accurately, you have fixed it.  I have presented my side of the situation, my logic and selfish lack thereof, and you have... melted or thought about it or... something.  I don't know.  But usually you're fine later.  Or aren't you?"

"But it _keeps happening_ , " John said. "You used to say you were bad for me. Evidently I'm the one that's bad for you."

"I am bad for you.  Remember when you mouthed off to Jameson?  That was me, not you."

"That was not you."

Sherlock shook his head.  "The point is, I am bad for you.  My lifestyle will get me killed, and now that includes you.  And the point of that is that you're not bad for me."  He regarded him.  "I wouldn't have done any of those things.  Before I met you."

"That's exactly why I'm bad for you. First off, Jameson was my problem, my past. Not yours. You should have had nothing to do with him. Whether it's because of my past, or yours, or a case, you're always the one getting hurt to keep me safe. I'm always getting you hurt."

Sherlock thought.  "The eighth thing Jameson did," he said carefully.  "That would be rape, right?  Even though I let him make me, I didn't really have a choice?  So it is?"

John swallowed thickly. "Yes. It is."

"So I shouldn't feel bad about it."

"It's okay to. I mean, it's a bad thing. But it wasn't your fault, no."

"When overwhelming force is used, the person being forced isn't at fault," he summarized.

"It's not the same."

"Every time we get into one of these situations," Sherlock continued, undeterred, "I make the situation trend towards me instead of you.  With overwhelming force.  I'm simply willing to do madder things than you, to draw the captor's attention away, or to force you to stop."

"It's not fair."

"Exactly!" Sherlock said, a bit excited.

"That's the problem, Sherlock. It's not fair. All I do is get you hurt."

"No, all I do is get hurt.  _Make_ you let me."

"It was my fault."

"No," Sherlock said calmly.

"Yet you do it."

"I'm selfish," he said simply.

"Well, I am too, then."

"I don't feel guilty about being raped or whatever we're going to call that," Sherlock said bluntly.  Truth be told, he wasn't thinking of it that way, and it was the thing that bothered him least of their whole adventure.  "And if you forced me somehow, if you had been the one doing what I did, I wouldn't have felt guilty.  Other things, yes, but not guilty."

"It's my fault you did any of them. And I'm angry that you would do them. Horrified that I had to watch them. Frustrated that even after everything was done I still couldn't make you happy."

Sherlock nodded encouragingly.  "More."

"Scared. Of being around you, even. I didn't want to make you hurt more."

"More."

"Yet more guilt from not catching the infection sooner."

Sherlock scooted closer to him.

"I don't like seeing you hurt."

Sherlock softened and scooted even closer.

"Especially because of me."

He placed a hand on John's knee, because it was closest.  "You would have done the exact same thing in my position.  You wouldn't have let me do a single thing, take a single thing away from you.  You love me like I love you and you're just as selfish."

"But I never have to do it," he said. He put his hand over Sherlock's.

"I'm sure at some point, you'll foil my plans," he said.  He squeezed lightly because he still couldn't squeeze more.  "I'm not happy about it."

"I'd feel better if I did though. That should please you."

"Does it please you?  That I feel better because I protected you?"

"Not that much."

Sherlock leaned in to kiss him.  "I am better at handling deprivation than you are," Sherlock said softly.  "You are better at handling guilt.  This is the ideal arrangement."

"Doesn't feel like it." His hand squeezed Sherlock's just a bit tighter.

"I know.  It's not really.  I'm just trying to make you feel better."

John smiled. "Well, thanks for that at least."

"I have one question."

"Okay."

"At one point, during one of the ten things, I could tell you were thinking of threatening to leave me.  It wouldn't have worked, but why didn't you try it?"

John shrugged, tipping his head back to rest on the sofa.  "It wouldn't have stopped you. I wouldn't have left. What's the point?"

Sherlock smiled and kissed his cheek.

"I love you," John said.  He shifted a bit closer, but not much. "I also...I mean, I've wanted to be closer. To you. But I don't want to hurt you."

"My face is fine, except my gums," Sherlock said immediately.  "My neck, my shoulders, my stomach."

"It would be so easy to hit an injury. I've done it plenty of times already."

"But I want you to touch me."

John hesitated before resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "This okay?"

"Perfect," Sherlock said with deep relief, putting his head on top of John's where it wouldn't affect his healing scalp.

"I miss this."

"I miss having sex with you," Sherlock bemoaned, not realizing that John was trying to have a Moment.  "How long until we're both healed enough?"

"Hey, I was being romantic," John complained.

"Oh!  Um."  Sherlock frowned in thought.  "I miss this too.  Having you in my arms is all I could ever desire."

John chuckled. "I miss sex too. It's going to be a while though."

"Damn sadistic freak Jameson," Sherlock grumbled.

"Yes, he was."

"Was no one sucking him off in the army?" Sherlock complained.  "I was given to understand that soldiers were very sexually active.  Is that why he hates sex?"

"I don't think he hated sex."

"Then why would he deprive people of it?" Sherlock pretended to demand.  "There's torture, and then there's sadism."

John hummed, tilting his head to kiss Sherlock's neck lightly.

Sherlock shuddered, tilting his head more.

John's lips quirked up and he did it again.

"Why are you so cruel?" Sherlock groaned, exposing even more of his neck.

"Maybe it's in my nature."

"Then the medical field seems like a poor career choice."  John hummed and continued placing light kisses on Sherlock's neck.  "Why?" Sherlock complained, making absolutely no move to stop him.

"You're not stopping me."

"You're tormenting me with something I can't have."

"I have perfectly good hands, you know."

Sherlock perked up at this.  "I have perfectly good..." he sighed.  "In a week I will have a perfectly good mouth."

"I look forward to the day."

He hummed, stretching towards John.

"But like I said. Until then, I do have my hands." He moved for Sherlock's lips instead.

"And what hands they are," Sherlock said in a low voice.  "Do you know, I worried he would ask me to chop off my cock?"

John stopped, trying not to think of the image. "I'd not thought of that."

"I'm trying to decide if I'd rather my eyes or my cock," Sherlock said, nudging John to resume.

"Eyes, I should think."

"Rather have, or rather have cut out?"

"Have."

He cringed.  "But... _God_!"

John kissed him lightly. "The work."

"Peeing," Sherlock said flatly.  "Sex."

"I do like sex with you," John agreed.

Sherlock huffed.  "Damn, I could have used that as an opportunity to be romantic."

"Do over?"

Sherlock laughed, surprised.  "Yes.  Okay.  Do it again, starting at the kiss and 'the work.'"

Grinning, John leaned in to kiss him again. "The work."

Sherlock tried not to smile, but it was impossible when John was grinning like that.  He giggled, stopped himself.  He put a hand on John's face lightly and kissed him sweetly.  "Making love to my-" he burst out laughing because John was still grinning at him.  "Make-making love to my... oh God John... _husband_."  He couldn't hug him without hurting both of them so he pressed their cheeks together, laughing.

John pretended to shake his head sadly. "That wasn't very romantic, Sherlock. You're slipping."

"You're... you're too beautiful," he giggled.  "I can't be expected to..."

"To speak around me? I suppose my face does that to most people."

Sherlock snorted with laugher, putting his face down on John's shoulder and descending into a fit of giggles.  "Three... three continent... Wats..."

"Had to happen somehow, right?" he asked cheerfully.

"Should... should take you to Australia and have you there."  He turned his head and cuddled his face into John's neck as his laughter calmed.

John was pleased with this shift. He'd not felt this relaxed in a long time. "If you'd like."

"It would be brilliant.  And then maybe South America."

"We hitting all the continents now?"

"Except Antarctica."

"Why not there?"

"Penguins are surprisingly preoccupied with voyeurism," he said seriously.

John hummed in consideration. "Well, I do get off on that, remember? The idea that someone could see you inside me?" He kissed the nearest bit of Sherlock he could reach without hurting him. "We've not done that in a while."

"Hoard of envious penguins," Sherlock speculated.

"Could be interesting."

He smiled.  "Could be dangerous."

"Well then, sounds like something we have to do."

Sherlock kissed John's lips, hard, or hard as he could without making his gums bleed.  He kissed him again.  And again.  "I just..." he said, stopping to kiss him yet again.

John was smiling. "You just...?" He tilted Sherlock's head towards him and kissed him.

He struggled for the words, kissing John again and again.  "Love.  I just love you."

"I love you too, Sherlock." God, how much he wanted to be able to pull Sherlock against him right now.

He put his hand so lightly on John's chest that it put no pressure on his bound ribs.  "Be still," he said.

"Alright."

Painstakingly slowly, watching John's face for any cringes or twitches of discomfort, Sherlock shifted closer until he could entangle their legs.  Then, so carefully, he placed their chests together, wrapped his arms around him, and put his head on John's shoulder.  It was more like a breeze than being held, but it was enough.

John closed his eyes, any traces of tenseness he'd had all but vanishing. "You brilliant, amazing, man," he breathed.

Even after all these years, Sherlock beamed at the praise.  Praise from John.  "I love you," he whispered in his ear.  "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you.  Nothing in the world."

John knew it was true. Had seen how it was true. But like this, the words just made him melt. He'd do anything for Sherlock too. Absolutely anything. "I would do anything to keep you safe and happy. To keep you with me. Because I love you and can't ever be without you."

Sherlock pulled back and kissed him softly, reverently, gazing into his eyes.  "Love of my life," he said softly.

John smiled softly. "And the love of mine."

Sherlock cuddled back into him, endlessly mindful of their injuries, and they stayed there together for a long time.  It was going to be okay.


End file.
